Women don't like scratchy faces
by whereismyshoe
Summary: Translation of a polish story. One of the Winchesters dies and the other one needs to get over it. We all know it's not that easy, though.


_It's a transalation of this beautiful polish story: s/7541459/1/Kobiety_nie_lubi_szorstkich_twarzy written by my lovely friend, **Atris-12. **I tried to do my best but I'm not a native English speaker. So, if you see any mistakes, please, let me know - I can learn this way ;) _

_I just want to say that I can't thank you enough for this birthday present, Atris... :) _

* * *

><p>You died.<p>

~..~

One week later I stay over a devastated, unrecognisable body that is greedily licked by flames. Bobby's hand is heavy when he lays it on my shoulder but at least it keeps me in the real world.

I wish it started to rain. I wish a sheet of rain could wash all the grief and sadness of me, I wish it could extinguish the fire inside of me. But it doesn't rain. The cloudy weather mocks at my wishes and the wind disperses dark clouds.

And you're not here.

Because you died.

~..~

It doesn't matter to me anymore. I don't have anyone to look after. Impala is empty - as it has never been before - because I know you are not going to seat next to me. In the bar next to the road I order something for me and a salad for you. In spite of everything.

~..~

Demons don't answer to my calls. They're happy to have you. But I'm not. My heart aches.

On the next hunt - alone - I almost lose my hand. But the heart still aches the most.

~..~

A wooden house is full of a soft light. I am staring at the TV when someone slams the door. It's you. You've got a pie in your hands. You lay it on a table and throw keys at me. I catch them, surprised.

My hand closes and there is a speck of dust.

It's not you.

Because you died.

~..~

When I sleep, there are thousands of memories in my head. I see us. I see you, when you ask me why I am shaving myself before every date (how old were we? I was sixteen, I think). I see myself, when I answer you that women don't like scratchy faces. I remember you, looking at me and standing on your toes - as though as you wanted to come closer and check it by yourself if this is true that the smooth face is nicer. You change your mind. And I'm alone with those memories.

Sometimes the blow of a warm wind wakes me up. I hope it's your breath.

But it's not you.

Because you died. And you're not here.

~..~

Sometimes I clench my fist. Sometimes I do it with my teeth. Sometimes I kill vampires with a machete and sometimes I stab the silver knife in shapeshifter's body. It's better now - you've been gone for so long - but I still see you next to the road, in a bar, on a bed. I feel you watching my back; I feel you gently shoveling my hair and tugging me closer to you so we are sure we're still alive.

But it's a lie. Because you're still not here.

And I'm still alive.

~..~

Bobby is worried more and more. I can see it by the way he talks with me. He's so careful and sometimes I think he hides something from me. He's calmer, though. You died a year ago. It's been half a year since I needed any stitches. I handle it. My heart aches, wounds bleed and all the supernatural creatures die. Just like it used to be.

I'm alive. And you died.

I'm here. And you're not.

It's a reality. And Bobby's heavy hand on my shoulder keeps reminding me of that.

~..~

It's good now. It's been a year since I can't see you on the front seat, at Bobby's, hunting. It's hard. But it's good. I need you three times a day only.

When I see you in Portland I frantically grab the steering wheel. I stop the car next to you. Your eyes widen with surprise and you look as if you were torn between running away and the longing. You don't move.

I, on the other hand, fall out of the car and slam the door with all the force I have. I shake your shoulders. You don't disappear like the previous ghosts of you. You don't shrug as if you were a completely stranger who happened to look like Sam. It's you - alive, warm. I can feel your bones and strained muscles.

I shut my eyes and count to ten. Is it some kind of a cruel joke? I'm afraid to look at you again. What if your eyes are black? But - no. They're hazel and you pull out your hand and touch my cheek. You're still alive and warm.

My throat tightens and I can't breath. The street is spinning but I can hear you, I can feel your breath and your hand on my face. I'm confused. Please, don't go, wait.

Your quiet laugh sends warm vibrations through my body. "I'm not going anywhere Dean. And I'm so sorry".

~..~

I wake up at Bobby's and I can't breath for a while again. You're not here. That was just a hallucination, just a dream. I hear footsteps on the corridor. It's not you, it's Bobby. He lays his hand on my shoulder again. He has this worried face before he says to me: "I'm so sorry".

But I can see you, right behind him. You stay in the doorway, smiling. You blink and walk away, and then I can hear slamming of Impala's doors. You wait. You didn't lie.

I tear out of Bobby's grip, dismissing him with a quiet "everything's alright". I follow you. I want explanation and I want to touch you again. I don't get any answers to my questions but I can feel you under my fingers and the world spins because of my happiness.

It's me and you.

~..~

It's autumn and it's cold. Bobby always frowns when he sees me and he doesn't speak with you at all. A few times I asked you "why", but you only shrug. No answers. And then we would go hunting and I would forget about questions. The only thing that matters is that I'm not alone anymore.

Leaves are falling down. One after another. The green ones fall down as well. You take them sometimes and watch them. You say they're beautiful although it's not true.

Now I am the one who orders the food. As though nothing happened. Something for me and a salad for you. The waitresses look at me weirdly. Just like they used to when you weren't here and I still ordered two portions.

You always wake up before me and I am not able to see you, sleeping. Your bed is done and you read another book. You spend less time in bathroom. You almost never use your phone. You don't check out, even if it's your turn. You don't shoot at hunts. But you're still alive and warm when I touch you. And you talk all the time.

~..~

I throw a lighter at you. You are supposed to burn a young girl's bones whose ghost worries people. The lighter passes your chest and lands on the ground, on the red, gold and yellow leaves I hate.

You died. And you're still not here.

And I still wait for a miracle.


End file.
